


easier than breathing

by takecourage



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Alaska, Bisexual Eve Polastri, Canon Divergence, Comfort, Domestic Fluff, F/F, Falling In Love, Fix-It, Fluff and Angst, Hot Chocolate, Love Confessions, Season/Series 02 Spoilers, Soft Eve Polastri, Soft Villanelle | Oksana Astankova, Yearning, can't stop myself, entirely villanelle and eve centric, fuck season three all my homies hate season three, gratuitous forehead kisses, hand holding, hashtag domestic bliss, love admissions?, massive overuse of italics, picks up after season 2, they live in a cabin together, they r in love okay, trauma ment, tw: nikos moustache, yearning!!!!!!!!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:41:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25390285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/takecourage/pseuds/takecourage
Summary: in which Villanelle takes Eve up on her offer.or, a killing eve series two fix-it where they both go and live in that alaskan cabin together
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Comments: 12
Kudos: 99





	easier than breathing

Eve is getting used to it. Not quickly, not totally, but she's getting used to it.

It’s been eleven months since the series of events that turned Rome into a slow-motion car crash. Eleven months since a man had his throat slit in front of her eyes. Eleven months since she let a man die ( _Hugo oh god the way he gripped her arms his fingers twisting into the fabric of her shirt his blood smearing across the floor his skin her clothes the fear in his eyes_ ) to help a killer. Eleven months since she buried an axe in a man’s head—she had no choice; he was _going_ to kill her, to kill them both.

Eleven months since she reached her hand, shaking, out to Villanelle, and eleven months since she took it.

Eve was panicking, her breath coming in sharp gasps that never seemed to reach her lungs, as they hurried through the winding and crowded streets of Rome. Villanelle was cool, confident, but hanging on to Eve’s hand like she was drowning.

“Where do we go?” She asked, her voice low and panicked, as they came to a screeching halt in the huge, glass lobby of the airport.

Eve’s brain suddenly restarted. “Alaska.”

“Alaska?”

“You thought I was joking?”

Villanelle’s gaze dropped to the ground, but the corners of her lips were tugged up in a secret smile, like a schoolgirl with a crush.

&.

Eleven months on and it’s cold, as it always is, the snow coming down thick and fast in a flurry Eve can only just make out by the weak autumn moonlight, but it’s warm inside—a fire crackling in the stone hearth, bathing the room in a warm, golden glow that makes the walls huddle closer, like they want to be nearer. Villanelle always builds a fire before she goes out. Eve chops the wood—with an axe, on a tree stump, like she’s some English farmer’s son. Her arms and back ache and her hands are being worn rough, even through her thick gloves, but she doesn’t care. It’s her new catharsis. It’s just what she does now. Much easier (and probably better for her) than smoking or smashing up beautiful Parisian apartments or running after Russian assassins.

Running after, and never really knowing what to do once they’d been caught. In a way, Villanelle solved that problem for her. Buy a cabin in Alaska, with a hearth in the living room and a tree stump out the back. Chop wood. Let a beautiful and terrifying woman build fires every time she leaves.

Eleven months ago, this would’ve been completely unimaginable. A borderline fever dream. Eleven months ago, Eve had a husband with a dreadful moustache and a cracking Shepard’s pie recipe. Now she kicks the snow off her boots when she comes inside, her shoulders and arms aching from chopping wood (the logs used to—and sometimes still do—shift into Raymond’s back, his face, blood gushing out from the bark, and she’ll either drop the axe and start running or swing harder and she doesn’t know which she hates herself more for), and looks for Villanelle. She’s usually trying to spruce up the flowers that adorn every room, or sprawled out on the sofa, endlessly scrolling through pages and pages of designer clothes on their shared cheap laptop, or impatiently stitching a huge, heavy patchwork quilt together. Honestly, it’s a miracle she’s even doing it—it took Eve over a month to find her a hobby she didn’t instantly hate, or dismiss as stupid and boring. Given that her hobbies before Alaska consisted exclusively of buying expensive clothes, messing with Konstantin, and light stalking (light stalking that made Eve think she was going to die at least once a week, but the past is the past), sewing seemed a little… tame. Deciding to make a patchwork quilt must’ve felt like a death sentence. And yet, she carries on making it, even though she makes a point of groaning loudly with every few stitches and throwing herself onto the sofa, bed, wherever, every time she makes a mistake—or, as she puts it, _the stupid blanket fucks up_. She complains about how much she hates it at every given opportunity, but when Eve suggests maybe, just maybe, she should stop, she looks like she’s been slapped. Eve rolls her eyes, tries not to smile, and goes back to whatever it is she was doing before.

If it was anyone else, and she means literally anyone else, it would drive her to distraction. But Villanelle is different. She always was, always is, and probably always will be.

The way she lay next to Eve in Paris, her eyes bright and burning, the warmth of her skin and her smell, light and floral, made Eve’s heart flutter right out of her chest. Eve sank down into the mattress, all but digging her nails into her smart trousers, longing to reach out and brush the back of her fingers over Villanelle’s cheek, to tuck a lock of her honey-blonde hair behind her shell pink ear. She wanted more than anything, _anything,_ to close the gap between them and kiss her. But there was Nico and Bill and Kenny, God love him, Carolyn and _fucking_ Hugo, and all the men and women dead by her hand. Eve wanted more than life itself to close that tiny physical gap and kiss her beautiful, terrifying woman, but the metaphorical gap between them was a mountain range.

So Eve stabbed her instead.

God, the _blood_. Smeared across the floor and soaking through Villanelle’s inevitably designer top. The look on her face—that sick mix of betrayal and shock and agony. Eve had never seen her properly hurt before and she knew she never wanted to see it again; her jaw clenched, her eyes wide, sweat beading down her forehead, her hands shaking and wet with blood. The gunshots echoing through the apartment and the bullets ripping through the kitchen cupboards and walls, Eve hysterically thinking she wished she hadn’t smashed all that champagne. And Villanelle, gone.

Back to Niko and his moustache and Eve throwing up bile and blaming it on the wine. And Villanelle, gone.

Back to work and Carolyn’s elegantly tailored coats and a ghost for a killer. And Villanelle, gone.

A desperate, dreadful plan. And Villanelle, _back_.

Eve wanted to wrap her up in her arms, kiss her forehead, plead for forgiveness (or at least call it quits), but she didn’t. She couldn’t. But, God _,_ she wanted to.

She has all the time in the world for that now.

Villanelle will come in, shaking from the Alaskan cold, and all but collapse into Eve. When she’s in a particularly good mood, she’ll press her freezing hands against Eve’s neck and laugh as she madly cringes and squirms away, and then she’ll pull Eve onto the sofa, squashing half of the decorative cushion arrangement they both take turns spending far too long on, and she’ll tell a ridiculous story about her day and make Eve guess which bits are lies—it’s never the ones she expects. When she’s in a bad mood, she’ll storm in, looking for all the world like the murderess that started all this mess, carry on storming until she reaches their bedroom door, where she’ll dither for a second before storming back, aggressively kiss Eve on the cheek, and storm into their bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

Eve often catches herself thinking that about her and Villanelle. That things are _theirs_. Their bedroom with their bed, cuddled under their covers, surrounded by their books and photos, watching their crappy TV show on their crappy laptop. It’s almost scary how soon the line between Villanelle’s things and Eve’s things blurred into just _their_ things. Of course, the distinction makes itself known when it’s convenient—Villanelle’s pile of laundry, Eve’s countless dirty coffee mugs—but the things that exist casually, the things that surround them and stay put are _theirs._

She remembers when Villanelle first casually referred to something as theirs. They were shopping for new curtains because she decided she suddenly hated the old ones. To be fair, they were absolutely hideous—orange and pink and green floral pattern on a background that could only be described as the colour of damp. Eve had just decided she didn’t care until Villanelle did. And Villanelle did care, so new curtains found themselves at the very top of the to-do list.

Eve let herself be dragged around the endless aisles of fabrics and safety pins and felt tips, bizarrely, for what feels like hours until she saw Villanelle’s eyes light up. Her long, bony fingers were gently caressing a roll of rough-hewn, white and green fabric, and Eve felt twin pinpricks of heat rush to her cheeks when she realised she wanted to be a roll of fabric.

 _This is perfect._ She said, before turning on her heel and gasping.

 _What?_ Eve asked, slightly tetchy.

She pointed to a roll of rich purple, almost velvet, material. _That is exactly what our bedroom needs._

Eve just nodded, her mouth suddenly dry. She felt a little dizzy in a way she recognised. The exact same feeling after a few drinks and a few more months with Niko. When she went to the seaside with the man before him and they watched the sun set over the sea, lighting the whole ocean on fire. When that beautiful woman before him tenderly fed her a chocolate-covered strawberry and they toasted with prosecco to the future. And she wanted to say I love you, right there, in the fabric section of a weirdly large haberdashery in Alaska, but instead she said, _you can’t completely redo the house, you know._

 _It’s our home._ Villanelle smiled her beautiful, dazzling smile. _And yes, I can._

Jesus God, Eve nearly died on the spot. The dizziness took over until she felt like Villanelle just proposed. Our home, she had said, our home! _Our home_ and not a second thought to what that would do to Eve. It was so unbearably tender she nearly started crying. And when Villanelle slipped her hand into Eve’s on the long way home, Eve found herself wondering how long she had felt like this, or at least how long she had been on the slow but steady descent into loving her, and heaping both blessings and curses on Anchorage General Fabrics and Crafts for making her realise just how bad she had it for this beautiful, terrifying woman.

&.

Back to the weak Autumn moonlight, and the fire crackling in the hearth.

Eve stands in the kitchen, steadily mixing chocolate powder into Villanelle’s favourite mug full of hot milk, methodically stirring eight times to the left, and seven to the right. Five marshmallows, a mountain of whipped cream (she definitely doesn’t sneak a bit straight out of the can for herself), and the tiniest sprinkling of the chocolate powder on top.

Just as she’s setting the mug down on a fancy but chipped saucer (it cost her a dollar, and a pang of nostalgia for the charity shops back in England, at a thrift store), the door swings open, revealing Villanelle, huddled under a huge coat, three scarves, and a ridiculously oversized bobble hat that keeps slipping down past her eyebrows. She looks _adorable._

“Honey, I’m home,” she says in that crystal clear Surrey girl accent of hers, kicking the door shut behind her, snow falling off her boots and onto the welcome mat.

“Hey,” Eve says softly, moving to help her out of her coat. Coats, plural, as it turns out. Clearly all that time swanning around in exotic countries doggedly got rid of any of her resistance to the cold, or at least her resistance to admitting she’s cold. After Eve hangs up her coats, plural, she goes to fetch the hot chocolate, her hands trembling ever so slightly. She just prays the marshmallows have only partially melted away.

Villanelle is absentmindedly checking her phone, so Eve stands in front of her slightly awkwardly until her persistent presence is registered. Villanelle looks up, and then at the hot chocolate shaking slightly in Eve’s hands. Her eyebrows briefly knit together and she tilts her head ever-so-slightly to the left.

Eve shoves the hot chocolate at her, a couple of drops spilling over the rim and onto the saucer. “For you.”

Villanelle looks at the drink, at the whipped cream starting to deflate, and back up at Eve, the look of confusion still plastered on her face.

“Hot chocolate,” Eve says, probably a bit louder than strictly necessary, “for you. To drink.”

Villanelle swallows. “You made hot chocolate? For me?” Any trace of her Surrey girl voice is gone, leaving her Russian accent behind—which sounds dangerously close to cracking.

Eve resists the urge to look around her. “Yeah.” The word hangs in the air for a second before she starts to say, “If you don’t want it that’s—”

Villanelle cuts her off by suddenly hugging her so hard she sends the hot chocolate flying. Eve is about to be annoyed before she realises Villanelle is _crying,_ and then she automatically hugs her back, stroking her hair and softly murmuring that it’s okay, she’s here, it’s okay. They stand like that, in the living room, holding each other and gently rocking back and forth for a while. _I love you_ , Eve thinks, and the thought comes as easy as breathing. She presses a kiss to Villanelle’s forehead.

Villanelle slowly pulls away, her beautiful face streaked with tears, her normally immaculate hair mussed up. “Sorry about your hot chocolate.” She sniffles, looking at the (thankfully) still-intact mug and saucer, and at the hot chocolate and cream and marshmallows soaking into the carpet.

Eve’s heart physically hurts. _I love you_ , she thinks again, easier than breathing. “Why don’t you get changed? I’ll make you a new one.” Villanelle looks like she might start crying again. “And, you know, clean this up.” She gestures at the stain.

Villanelle nods and darts away into the bedroom. _Their_ bedroom.

Eve was never much of a one for being a domestic goddess with Niko, so she just sprays it with carpet cleaner and hopes for the best. They could always get a rug, that’d be easier. She carefully remakes the hot chocolate exactly the same way; stirring it eight times to the left and seven times to the right, five marshmallows, a mountain of whipped cream, and a sprinkling of chocolate powder. Arguably, this one is even better.

Villanelle emerges from the bedroom, wearing Eve’s ratty old t-shirt, tattered joggers, and her own pink fluffy socks. Her eyes are still a little red, her hair is still a little frizzy, and she’s still sniffling slightly. Eve wants to wrap her up in a blanket and keep her safe for all eternity. She goes and sits down heavily on the sofa, crossing her legs, and Eve brings her the hot chocolate, her hands completely still. She sits down next to her, and she flops her head on to Eve’s shoulder, taking a tiny sip of her drink.

“This is fucking delicious,” she says, with whipped cream smudged on the tip of her nose. Eve feels like running outside and screaming at the sky because good _lord_ this is the sweetest thing she’s ever seen.

Villanelle sips her way through her hot chocolate, leaning against Eve the entire time. When she finishes, she puts her mug on the floor and shifts around so her head is in Eve’s lap.

The fire crackles in the hearth, bathing them both in its warm glow, Villanelle’s hair turned to shimmering gold by the light. Outside, the world is dark and cold, but inside, Eve is gently running her hands through Villanelle’s hair, smoothing the silky strands through her fingers. The weight and warmth of her makes Eve’s heart sing.

She wants to say _I love you_ because the thought is more than instinct now, but instead she asks, “Why the fire?”

“To keep you warm,” Villanelle says simply. “Until I get back. The same with that blanket.”

“I love you,” Eve says, completely without thinking. And she doesn’t regret it. She means it with every fibre of her being.

Villanelle looks up at her, her fox-like eyes practically heart-shaped. “You do?”

“I do. I love you.”

“I love you too,” she says, softly, as she presses a softer kiss to Eve’s hand.

And Eve could get used to this.

**Author's Note:**

> niamh made me do it  
> sorry for the unbeta'd shambles this is. hope u enjoyed anyway? idk how to ao3 anymore its been too long lmao


End file.
